


When is an oar not an oar? When it's a shovel!

by Navy_Blue



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Flashbacks, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, i guess, it's another james-is-odysseus one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 16:55:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13861935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Navy_Blue/pseuds/Navy_Blue
Summary: James is odysseus aka the parallels in this show are uh.. numerous. Three parts in which James learns about, becomes, and completes his journey as Odysseus in his own way. Inspired by ahalf-baked idea i made into a tumblr post





	When is an oar not an oar? When it's a shovel!

London 1708

The fire was hours old, but it warmed Thomas’s office enough for James to feel himself become drowsy as he lay on the small sofa in front of it. His feet were in Thomas’s lap, who was reading a rather long Greek poem. Mercifully this one was a translation, thought James, although he did not wholly mind falling asleep to Thomas’s voice as he tried to make out the meanings of books that were not in English. Miranda has taught him enough Spanish to get by listening to that section of Thomas’s library.

“Oh, here’s the bit I wanted you to hear. I feel you might be able to shed light on its meaning more than a poor landlubber like me,” Thomas said. James very much doubted that he could come up with something to say about this poem which Thomas would not be capable of figuring out on his own, but he appreciated the sentiment and allowed him to continue. Thomas rested the book on James’s legs and turned to him.

“So, Odysseus, on his journey home to Ithaca, is visited by a ghost. The ghost tells him that once he reaches his home, once he slays his enemies and sets his house in order, he must do one last thing before he can rest. The ghost tells him to pick up an oar and walk inland and keep walking until someone mistakes that oar for a shovel. For that would be a place where no man has ever been troubled by the sea, and that's where he'd find peace. Seems a bit odd no?” 

James considered it for a moment. It was a tale he’d heard on ships before, not featuring Odysseus or Gods or ghosts, but the idea of leaving the sea behind in such a way – finding a place untouched by the sea – that he knew of. “Yes, I know of it. Not as a part of your story, more as a joke really. Something you say when the sea is rough and all you want is a warm bed and some dry clothes. That sort of thing.” James said with a slight laugh. There had been a fierce storm on his last voyage, one of the officers had made the joke. The idea of ramming an oar in the soil as a last fuck-you to the sea had been particularly appealing.

“Why do you think Odysseus had to do it, plant his oar?”

“Well, I suppose it’s the end of his journey. Without his oar, he cannot travel. His adventures end.” James replied with a shrug.

“Hmm interesting. A bit sad, don’t you think?” 

“Not really. I think it’s a fitting end. I wouldn’t mind it: pulling up the sails, walking inland. It sounds- peaceful.”

“Well, let’s hope you don’t become too much like poor Odysseus. If it ever takes you ten years to come home, I don’t know what I’d do with myself. Three months seemed long enough." Thomas paused for a moment. "Do you ever think you will leave- the sea, I mean?”

James turned his gaze from Thomas to the dying embers in the fireplace. He dreamed of leaving the close cramped quarters of his ships, and the watchful eyes of his superiors. He knew it was far off, almost an impossibility. He wouldn’t be able to retire for decades; he had little savings to speak of and wouldn’t get a pension from the navy until he was promoted at least twice. He wondered if he’d ever tell Thomas about the nights he’d spend dreaming of a little cottage for the two of them to grow old in together far from the sea and far from London. It was a fantasy, yes, but the image made his chest ache. 

“James?” Thomas was looking at him with a concerned furrow in his brow.

James smiled and took Thomas's hand in an attempt to reassure him. “Perhaps, one day. It seems too far off to think about. I’m not sure what’d I do with myself if I wasn’t sailing somewhere.”

It was Thomas's turn to smile then, a wry grin and his eyes bright with the embers in the hearth, “Oh I’m _sure_ I can think of something to occupy you.”

 

Nassau 1715

The sun lit up the dust in the air of Eleanor’s office. She looked at him from across the room with a raised eyebrow, daring him to answer, to find the words to allow her to let him do what he needed. Mr Scott was scowling at him. 

“The Urca de Lima? You’ll not be able to take her, no one’s ever taken a galleon like that as a prize. And even so, why not run away with the money?” Her question didn’t seem to come from a place of mistrust, she had always given James the benefit of the doubt. Rather, the confusion on her face, James realised, was because she _knew_ he would not leave Nassau behind.

God what James wouldn’t give to take the money and leave, run. He and Miranda could go to the Colonies, to Boston, start again with everything she deserved- well as close as they’d get. But that’s not how this works. He knew that. Even with Mr Scott’s laughter ringing his ears, he knew what was coming and could not lose sight of it. It was not quite his time to run, not yet.

So, he told them what Thomas had told him. He remembered the words exactly. He could almost be in London with the fire warming his back, not the hot Nassau sun and the bright blue yes in front of him belonging to Thomas, not Eleanor. He had come to understand the story more as his plan unfurled in front of him. Bit by bit, with each new hurdle, the time when he would walk inland seemed to grow more distant, but he never lost sight of it. One day he would walk away from the sea and find some peace. He supposed that was how he was able to remain so calm. For Eleanor and Mr Scott, Mr Guthrie’s demise was the end of all they had known, for James it was one small piece of a much larger story. One verse of a chapter of a volume of a story that would end perhaps years from now, in peace.

Now onto the next verse - the little shit with the schedule.

 

Savannah 1719

It was a year since they had left the plantation behind. Wrecked by a storm and under the less-than-capable hand of Mr Oglethorpe, escape had been relatively easy. Thomas had used his upper-class accent and trust-worthy eyes to secure a job under a new name; he’d told James to stay at home for that meeting.

The small cottage they now called _home_ with giddy smiles was half an hour on horse from the town where Thomas now taught the children of the merchants and shop owners. James had spent the autumn and winter clearing patches for vegetables and a small orchard and now the spring had come there were shoots and the beginnings of what promised to be a bountiful harvest. James had also started doing work around the town, not much, but he was a skilled carpenter and could fix most problems they gave him. On this particular evening, the spring sun had started to set, and James only saw the flash of metal in the corner of his eye. It was the glint of an idea, a long forgotten story. 

He jumped down from the horse and walked towards the twisted chunk of metal and wood hiding in the long grass by the roadside. An oar: it was battered and it certainly wouldn’t get you very far in a boat, but James smiled as he picked it up and started home again. As he neared the cottage, he passed the old man he knew only as Mr Bates. He was a small man who asked too many questions for James’s liking, but he knew a lot about farming and had helped them set up the garden at the cottage.

He waved at James as he approached, “Hey, Mr Hamilton, “what’s that you got there.”

“Oh, I found it by the roadside.” James said, unable to stop the grin that appeared when he heard his new name.

“Well, you won’t be needing a shovel quite yet, those vegetables we planted should be harvested in late summer at the earliest. You don’t want to undo all those hours of planting do you?”

“Certainly not.” He looked at the oar, smiled, and then walked to the side of the dirt track, where the ground was still wet from yesterday's rain. He lifted the oar above his head and drove it into the soil. Glancing back at Mr Bates, he saw the old man looking quite confused. “Ah, yes, Mr Bates. Perhaps you would let me tell you a story…”

**Author's Note:**

> Odysseus is the most difficult name to spell i swear to god. one or two Ds? two no, three Ss? the "yeu" in the middle? Ahhh. Also i was super liberal with the years cos idk how it works out.


End file.
